


Witness

by AeroplanesR0ck



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Sweethearts, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Gen, Grieving Sherlock, POV Greg Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 20:16:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16772155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeroplanesR0ck/pseuds/AeroplanesR0ck
Summary: The first inkling that Greg Lestrade had of John Watson-Holmes was the news of his death.Inspired by aprompton the Dreamwidth kink meme





	Witness

The first inkling that Greg Lestrade had of John Watson-Holmes was the news of his death. He’d been at Baker Street, trying to convince him to come in on a case. Sherlock had his coat on and was following him out the door, but as they were about to step out into the street, they were stopped in their tracks by a man in a military uniform, fist raised as though poised to knock.

Sherlock halted in his tracks, eyes scanning up and down the figure. “Yes, all right, I understand. Talk to my brother if you want to hash out the details. No doubt he’s already been in contact.” He turned to Lestrade. “Apologies, Lestrade, I won’t be joining you after all.”

Lestrade stumbled into the officer as he was bodily pushed out onto the street, the door slamming in his face. As he attempted to regain his bearings, an anguished, almost inhuman scream echoed out from the other side of the door. Lestrade started for the door, but hesitated, thought better of it, and stepped away. He had a case to get to.

*****

Lestrade had no idea what he was doing at the funeral of a man he’d never met. He hadn’t even known his name until he turned up. It had been Mycroft, of course, the mysterious fucking bastard, who’d instructed him to wear a dark suit and then just sent a towncar to kidnap him out of his house when he’d planned on having a day off, depositing him at this funeral for a John Watson-Holmes.

He hadn’t seen Sherlock since that day the officer had turned up. He scanned the crowd for the man, but didn’t see him anywhere. Surely the man wouldn’t skip his husband’s funeral? Lestrade hovered near the back uncertainly, looking for anyone he might recognise. There were a bunch of men in dress uniform, and what looked to be the family at the front of the room. Finally, he spotted Mrs Hudson, only halfway recognisable under her massive black hat. He stepped up beside her, glad for a familiar face.

“Oh, Detective Inspector, it’s so good of you to come.” She said through tears, clutching at his arm.

He awkwardly put an arm around her, patting her consolingly. “Yes, well. Hrm. Did you know him?”

She nodded, dabbing at her face with a handkerchief. “Yes, of course. Such a lovely boy. And he made Sherlock so h-happy.” She burst into a fresh set of tears, burying her face in her hands.

Lestrade stuck to patting Mrs Hudson, continuing to scan the crowd for Sherlock as the service began. It wasn’t until the eulogy that he came up from behind, Mycroft putting a hand on his shoulder and whispering something to him before he mounted the podium.

Compared to the Sherlock of just a few days ago, the man had undergone a drastic change. He’s lost that manic energy that buzzed constantly about him, and he seemed ever paler and thinner than ever before. Listening to him talk about his husband was surreal. He hadn’t even known that Sherlock was gay, let alone married. Yet it seemed that he’d been in a committed relationship for longer than Lestrade had even known him. How had he missed this? From just a five-minute speech, it was clear that Sherlock loved his husband deeply. Why had he never mentioned him?

It wasn’t hard to find Sherlock at the reception. He was at the bar, drinking heavily and glaring at everyone who came up to talk to him. Resigning himself to being snapped at, Lestrade stepped up to sit beside him, fully expecting to be rejected but figuring that he had a duty to at least try.

“Oh, Lestrade it’s you. Good. Keep these vultures away from me.” He said flatly. Downing another shot, he folded his arms and buried his head in the countertop.

Apparently he’d been assigned bodyguard duty. Lestrade turned to face the room, reaching out to pat Sherlock lightly on the shoulder.

Sherlock jerked away sharply. “Don’t touch me.” He hissed.

Lestrade pulled his hand away, lifting them in surrender. “Okay, okay. I won’t.”

“Good.” Sherlock muttered, then dropped his head back onto his forearms.

Sherlock’s shoulders were shaking, Lestrade realised after a minute. His fingers clawed at the wooden countertop as he trembled violently.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade said hesitantly, just barely remembering to keep his hands to himself.

When he lifted his head, Sherlock’s eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, his hollow cheeks streaked with tears. “Fuck.” He muttered, scrubbing at his face with the heel of his palm. He stared through Lestrade, hardly seeming to register him at all. “What am I going to do without him?”

Lestrade opened his mouth to say something comforting, then closed it, as no words were forthcoming. Fortunately, Sherlock didn’t seem to be expecting an answer, waving down the bartender for another drink.

“I need to leave.” Sherlock said, finishing his drink in seconds. “Can’t stand all of these people, hanging around, imagining to themselves that they knew _my_ John.” He scoffed. “They didn’t know him any more than you did.”

Lestrade blinked. “I… didn’t know him at all.”

“Precisely.” Sherlock muttered. He got up abruptly, swaying slightly on his feet and grabbing at Lestrade’s shoulder for stability. “Come on. I’m going to kip at yours.”

“What? You are?” Lestrade protested as Sherlock drunkenly fumbled him towards the door. “Why?”

“Can’t stay at ho- at the flat. Too many memories. Been at Mycroft’s, but you’re a much better option.”

Lestrade softened a little. “Yeah, all right. You can stay over. Come on, let’s get a cab.”

Even falling-down drunk, Sherlock had the magical ability to summon cabs out of thin air. Not long after, he was curled up in Lestrade’s bed, fully clothed but for his shoes, and thankfully well on his way to being fast asleep.

When Sherlock shuffled back into the living room, it was late in the evening. Lestrade glanced up from the telly, giving him a little wave with the remote.

“Hey. You hungry? I ordered in Chinese, didn’t want to wake you but there’s some in the fridge if you want it.”

Sherlock gave him a blank little look, then shook his head and disappeared into the kitchen. “Coffee.” He said, a little hoarsely.

He still had that drained look about him from at the funeral. He looked gaunt enough that Lestrade sort of suspected he hadn’t really had solid food in days, but he didn’t dare press it. He just nodded, giving him directions for where he kept the coffee.

*****

Two days later, Sherlock was still there in Lestrade’s flat, moping about the place. He seemed lost in a fugue, staring disinterestedly at the ceiling or picking morosely through Lestrade’s cheap paperback collection. He didn’t even seem to have the energy to mock Lestrade for his poor taste in literature.

On the second night, Lestrade had reclaimed his bed, evicting Sherlock to the sofa. Sherlock put up no protest to this, simply stealing a pillow and heading silently out to the living room.

At the very least, Lestrade had figured out how to get Sherlock to eat. Full meals he rejected, but when presented with a plate of biscuits and either tea or coffee, he would finish it off over the course of the next couple of hours.

“You know, I think I almost miss that verbal diarrhoea of yours.” Lestrade said to Sherlock’s form as he lay unmoving on the sofa. He’d grown tired of the oppressive silence. Just because Sherlock wasn’t speaking didn’t mean Lestrade had to follow suit. “You’re kinda worrying me here, Sherlock. You’re acting nothing like yourself.”

Sherlock flipped over, regarding him lifelessly. “I’m nothing without him.” He said flatly.

“Come on, that can’t be true.” Lestrade cajoled. If Sherlock was finally talking about it, he couldn’t let this opportunity go. “He’d want you to go on, I’m sure.”

Sherlock grabbed a sofa cushion and hugged it to his chest, gripping it so tight Lestrade feared it might burst. “Of course he would. But I- I can’t- _How_? I can’t even remember what it’s like not to have him.”

Sherlock’s face was a mix of desperation and frustration, and it was a mark of how awful the past couple of days had been that Lestrade was relieved to see him have any facial expression at all.

“You’ve been together a long time, then?” Lestrade probed cautiously.

Sherlock deflated suddenly, a long breath rushing out of him. “Since we were fourteen.” He murmured. He settled the abused cushion in his lap, picking idly at the seams. “But we met in kindergarten. I meant it literally; I have no recollection of a time when I didn’t have him by my side. Until now.” His face crumpled, and he took a deep, shuddering breath, trying and failing to stave off the tears that formed in the corners of his eyes.

Lestrade nodded, standing. “Well then. I think what you need is a couple stiff drinks, and then you can tell me all about him.” Sherlock just nodded, and Lestrade patted him on the shoulder as he headed into the kitchen.

*****

“He was like… light.” Sherlock slurred, clutching his half-empty glass. “And now it’s like… I can’t see. Can’t think. It’s all gone.” Sherlock seemed less averse to touch than he had been at the wedding, so Lestrade had an arm slung around him, squeezing his shoulder. “I need him. Need him back, Lestrade.”

Lestrade had nothing to say to that. Not even the Holmes’ genius could raise the dead. “How did you two start dating?” He asked, trying to turn him towards happier memories.

Sherlock actually smiled, a little. “I loved him. Loved him, loved him, and I told him so. Cos he deserved it. Gave him everything and told him so, cos that’s what he deserved. And when he loved me back it was the sweetest gift.”

God, who knew Sherlock Holmes was secretly a giant romantic? They’d all imagined he was asexual because he never took a second glance at anyone, no matter how beautiful they were or how hard they were flirting. Apparently he was just the most devoted husband on the planet. Who’d have guessed?

Sherlock was looking at him now, a vague, drunken approximation of the look he hadn’t worn in days, the one Lestrade normally saw on crime scenes. He was being deduced.

“Hm.” Sherlock muttered. “Not a horrible idea, Gerard. I suppose I might as well.”

Lestrade frowned. “My name’s Greg. What idea? What are you-” His next words were lost as Sherlock planted a sloppy kiss on his lips, hands going for his buttons with surprising dexterity. He hastily untangled himself, planting a hand on Sherlock’s chest to keep him at arm’s length. “No. God, no. That is not what I was thinking at all.” He stood, hauling Sherlock to his feet once it seemed that he wasn’t about to attempt a repeated assault. “You’re grieving, and you’ve had a little too much to drink. I’m definitely not your type, so let’s just sleep it off, eh? Come on.” He bundled Sherlock onto the sofa, flipping down the afghan to cover him. Sherlock gazed up at him, looking a little more lucid than he had before, though that wasn’t saying much.

‘You’re right, of course.” Sherlock mumbled. “Terrible idea.” Lestrade politely didn’t point out that he’d just said it wasn’t a horrible idea. “You’ll never erase him. Nothing can. Don’t even wanna. I’ll never, never… always.”

As Sherlock slowly lost all coherence, Lestrade turned down the light, ruffling Sherlock’s hair lightly. “G’night, Sherlock.” The only reply that came was a light snore.

*****

The next morning, Sherlock was gone. Lestrade had to admit, he was impressed that he’d managed to sneak out while sporting what must have been a massive hangover. Still, he was a little worried, so he fired off a text.

_Where are you? GL_

_Went home. Text me when you have a case. SH_

_Are you all right? GL_

_Fine. SH_

It took a week before a case came up that warranted Sherlock’s attention. Lestrade texted Sherlock the details, getting a terse ‘Coming, 20 mins. SH’ in reply. Lestrade walked out to the tape to meet him as Sherlock came striding up to the crime scene.

Sherlock looked better. He wasn’t back to normal, not by a long shot. He still seemed a little more withdrawn than usual, but he wasn’t as gaunt as he’d been a week ago, and there was some life in his eyes as he met Lestrade’s gaze. As Sherlock brushed past him, Lestrade heard a whispered ‘Thank you’, barely audible, but spoken nonetheless. Lips twitching into a smile, he followed Sherlock into the crime scene.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that wasn't too overdone. I don't have any personal experience of this kind of grief, so I hope I haven't misrepresented it too badly. Just wanted to try something out.


End file.
